Poetry

The Shape Of Things The shape of things isn't always What it seems, on the surface A thin veneer, obscuring That what appears as form Is but normalised belief A superfice

Morning breaks, The dewy landscape damp Woodland floor nondescript Against the dank debris Of last year’s beech leaves Strewn across now-muddied ground Sun takes its first steps Peering o’er the hills

No snow poetry I have nothing, I’m afraid Beyond the white peace

O’er half the world, the dreamer flies Above middle towns and country places Liquid grace, never too close to the sun But through once-sullen clouds, suddenly parted Drawing electrical storms into his

Perhaps life is a momentary twist in fate and time, within which Sentience has its chance to exist. From nauseous, harsh First discovery of air and light, the celestial clock starts to tick